Song of Songs
by Avianna13
Summary: In the beginning, though his heart and mind were very nearly shattered, he cast his eyes upon her and knew she was lovely.
1. Chapter 1

_I am very dark, and lovely,_

_O daughters of Jerusalem,_

_like the tents of Kedar,_

_like the curtains of Solomon._

* * *

In the beginning, though his heart and mind were very nearly shattered, he cast his eyes upon her and knew she was lovely.

She had stood before him small but firm in her odd finery. Her very presence commanding attention to her every word. Her lips were full and pink. Her skin: dark and smooth. He could see the grief in the set of her mouth, in the arch of her brow, and in the elegant tower of her neck. Yet, her large expressive eyes had been clear and full of intent.

She was wholly distracting, an intricate web of contradictions and dashed expectations. Even as he had attempted to puzzle out her impossible existence, he watched this beautiful mysterious woman assess and then dismiss him. An ire had rose with in him, sent words tumbling out unchecked.

He would not be dismissed, not by her, not ever. He had been put in her path for a purpose. He hadn't felt so sure of something since he had risen unbidden from his grave and he clung to it, to her.

Those wondrous dark eyes fell on him once more and he found himself lost in the heat of her gaze. Her pain had been so similar to his own. She was not a cool soothing balm beckoning him into this new world. He did not feel that he knew her. She was fire and loss and so many things unknown, but he knew that she was lovely. That he had never met anyone like her, that he would never know anyone like her again. And more than that, he knew he would **know** her.

He would grasp and claw and wretch away at her until his knowledge of her was complete. He would make sense of her and her world.

How little had he known then of the need she inspired in him, of the gentleness she would remind him he still possessed, or the well spring of guilt and faithlessness she would fall victim to though he had worked so hard to bury it away.

Abbie's skin was dark and lovely, and tasted of apples. Within her lived a spark of the divine, Ichabod was sure.

* * *

_Behold, you are beautiful, my love;_

_behold, you are beautiful;_

_your eyes are doves._

* * *

Abbie watches him from across the length of the archives. Her eyes full of mirth, her lips twitching upward. He feels himself smiling back quite helplessly.

—-

The bruise is ugly and swollen. She tried to hide it behind dark spectacles but he noticed it within moments upon her arrival. Seconds later he is at her side, pulling the blasted things away from her face.

"Crane", she protests but his fingers are already under her chin pulling her closer.

"Who did this?" The words are stilted. His jaw clenched. Her eyes search his out and her face softens, imploring.

"Crane, I'm alright."

He swallows hard, his hand traveling up to cup her cheek. Letting his thumb lightly trace the dark edge of the bruise on her cheekbone.

"I wasn't there."

Her eyes are shining and warm and his chest aches anew when she leans into his touch.

—-

Sometimes she will look up at him, breathless from a chase or imbued with wicked mischief, and he will be struck dumb at the sight of her.

All his traitorous mind can conjure are imaginings of the scarlet thread of her mouth lush against his own. Those lustrous lashes dropping closed with pleasure.

—-

She pushes him away for awhile. He doesn't understand it at first. This withdrawal of her time and attention. Nor does he understand his need of it.

She does not desert him as he feared she might earlier in their acquaintance. No, she is with him even if the gulf of experience and understanding seems to widen between them with every passing moment.

Her looks once so filled with affection and camaraderie have grown cooler, more measured. She relies on him less every day. He wants to rail against it. Redeem himself in her eyes. But he doesn't know how to do so without risking isolating her even further.

He nurses a drink and eyes the tall young man helping the lieutenant out of her coat. The man's hands brush against her collar bones and then her shoulders, bared by the cut of her dress. Ichabod catches a glimpse of conflict in her eyes as she thanks him, takes his arm and leads him to a table full of fellow officers.

Around him the christmas party slogs along. His beer is bitter. Across the room, Abbie catches his eye and smiles. It's bittersweet and he nods in return, then drops his gaze back to his drink.

Hawley can go fuck himself.

—-

He is damned. He'll damn her too. Fickle, faithless, and proud. He'll damn them all. And yet, Abbie's still there beside him radiating patience and resolve. Her eyes are gentle when he asks her to look away and she does. She holds his hand as he weeps.

—-

Abbie's body is curled around him. Their legs and fingers entwined as surely as their fates. Her face is nestled under his chin and as he struggles to calm his breathing, he feels her lashes flutter against his neck.

The words occur to him as a blessing or a prayer would and he feels a burden slip away at their recollection. Ichabod pulls her against him once again, kisses her deeply.

She is poetry. Her kisses are wine against his tongue. He is sick with love for her. When he breaks away he presses a kiss to each of her eyelids.

"You are beautiful; your eyes are doves."

* * *

Notes: Not sure if I'm going to continue with this. But I would love some feed back. I'm feeling like I should at least try my hand at Abbie before I wash my hands of it.


	2. Chapter 2

That first night, after Corbin - after Crane, Abbie had drug herself through her home with too many empty rooms, great hiccuping sobs already wracking her body. She flushed her pain meds down the toilet, and gave herself exactly an hour to cry, curse god, whatever. Then in her bed she stared into the darkness, deeper than it had any right being in her room and was certain she was going mad.

'Will we be sharing a cell, leftenant?'

Abbie laughs and laughs and it hurts but when she is finally done, she can sleep.

—

His left hand is under my head,

and his right hand embraces me!

—

Abbie figures Ichabod is a tactile learner. That things just become more real to him under his touch and of course he touches everything.

So when he first reaches for her she fights the instinct to shrug away. She reasons it is a kindness. After all, who does he have to make real if not her.

She lets long warm fingers envelope her own, lets him help her up, lead her across water and through doors. She lets him stand too close and lean in to whisper conspiratorially in her ear.

And it gets really easy between the two of them, the shared space. Those fleeting touches. But Abbie always figured it would let up. When it doesn't she tries not to think too hard about why that is. And if she has found comfort in it, she tries not to think too hard about that too.

—

She is on her tiptoes reaching for their copy of 'Liber Juratus' when she feels his hand hot and heavy at the small of her back.

"Please, Miss Mills, let me."

—

He reaches for the poison and she reaches across the table, clasping his hand. She's showing all her cards, she knows. But in this moment she doesn't care, praying that he gets the message in the language he has chosen for them. That she is here, that she is hurting.

'Please, don't.'

And for a moment he hesitates, his thumb working against her skin like he is trying to sooth it all away. But it isn't enough.

She stays, watches him go under, and pulls his hand to her heart. He won't be alone. She can do that much. And just this once, she lets the fire burn through her unchecked. She will feel it all.

—

He is reaching for her fingers again. Its different this time. Their hands are palm to palm and their fingers entwined. He is clutching at her tightly. She supposes that he means to be reassuring and it is really. Its just his hands are so big she almost disappears within his grasp. She is the one that ends up pulling away. She's the one that steps first into hell.

—

Jenny had been watching her closely since her return. Abbie thinks it might be because of the nightmares or maybe Jenny just expects her to finally break. Abbie is tougher than that though, but its not Jenny's fault that she doesn't know that.

In the end, Jenny is the one that snaps and Abbie reminds herself that that isn't Jenny's fault either.

Jenny calls her single minded, calls her cold. She packs her bags and stands on the threshold of their home and tells her that Ichabod Crane has feet of clay, that Abbie's faith in him will be their ruin and she will not stick around to play back up while they drag her down with them.

Abbie wants to beg her to stay, wants to hold on to her and never let go. But Jenny has made her feel all of eight years old again standing helplessly as she watches their mother being led away, and she thinks she might hate Jenny forever for that. No words will ever make this right but she tries, blurts them out before she chokes on them.

"I love you." And it's a plea but could be a goodbye too. It's whatever Jenny wants it be. She watches Jenny's face crack wide open and when their eyes meet she can see the grief there, the love and desperation and knows it mirrors her own. Maybe they just weren't destined for this.

"Abbie, please, I already pulled a gun on you, please. Just-"

"No, it's okay." Abbie breathes. There's a reason they dance around these things, put up fronts, neither of them are good at this. Neither of them are good people even, and it is not enough stop this. It's never enough but it's something.

Jenny nods and then looks away, closing the door softly behind her. Abbie doesn't leave the house for three days. On the third day, Ichabod lets himself in, finds her in the kitchen making breakfast. She smiles at him, offers him a cup of coffee. He stands in her dining room looking lost and oddly small in his great coat.

"I do not want coffee. I want an explanation. The Police Department said you were taking leave. You and Miss Jenny haven't been answering my calls. I know I've been preoccupied of late, but this -"

Abbie slams the mug down onto the counter, not daring to turn and look at him.

"Jenny's gone."

"What?"

"She left. She and Irving are in Mexico somewhere tracking down some artifact. I don't know when she'll be back but considering she's violating her parol, I doubt it will be very soon."

And then he is across the room hands on her arms, pulling her into an embrace.

"Abbie, I'm so -"

"No." She says, her hands at his chest pushing him away. "I'm - hmm" She stops, and steps back. He's blinking down at her, stunned, maybe even angry, but Abbie only wants to get away.

She reaches for her coffee and glances back at him before making her way to the living room.

"I'll see you at work tomorrow, Crane" she smiles and turns away.

—

"You are too little to be fighting like a boxer."

"Excuse me." She says, shooting Hawley a dark look.

"I saw the stance you took when that demon came at you. That was a boxer's stance. Its cute that you try though." He is smiling cheekily at her, blue eyes twinkling.

Across the archives Ichabod has his nose in book and is trying hard not to acknowledge Hawley's very existence.

Abbie wants to sigh but instead she considers his words. It doesn't help that she is sporting a long ugly cut along the side of her arm from said demon.

"Are you suggesting an alternative?"

"Maybe."

"Fine, lets hear it."

Hawley's smile gets impossibly bigger and he rises from his chair to stand in front her. Out of the corner of her eye she can see Ichabod peering at them through his hair. His jaw working.

"Take that stance again." Hawley says.

Abbie rolls her eyes but does as he says. He circles around her.

"You already have a low center of gravity. You need to take advantage of that. Redirect your opponents force to his disadvantage rather than simply trying to dodge", he says, coming to stand behind her, his hands dropping to her hips.

"There. That's better." He is voice is low and so very close. Abbie can feel his breath on her neck. She only has a moment to register what's happening before she hears the book slam shut.

"Forgive Me. I believe I'll retire for the afternoon. Do call me if something turns up."

Abbie wants to say something, anything, but is she at a loss. She suddenly feels stretched too thin. All the plates she has kept spinning seem to lurch sickeningly all at once leaving her scrambling to right them. And she can't think of single damn thing to say as she watches Ichabod abruptly gather his things and make towards the door.

"Say hi to Katrina for us." Hawley says and Ichabod responds by slamming the door so forcefully the frame shakes and shudders in his wake.

And then Hawley is pulling her close against him.

"That went off without a hitch." he growls into her hair, running eager fingers under the hem of her shirt.

"You don't get to do that."

"Do what?"

His mouth is hot against her ear, her neck. Abbie bites her lip.

"Push his buttons. Mess with his 18th century sensibilities to get what you want."

"Oh, was that what I was doing?"

His hands are already fumbling with the front of her jeans. She shoves them away and turns to face him.

"Do not do that. I'm serious, Hawley."

He drops to his knees, his hands reaching behind her, pulling her forward until he is pressing his face into her stomach. It's achingly tender and she can feel a panic in her building, struggling its way to the surface.

"I don't want to fight Abbie."

She drops a hand to his head, runs her fingers through his hair and then tugs until he is gazing up at her. His eyes are hooded, pupils blown, but she can see something lurking behind the lust. He looks a bit haunted she decides and feels her world tilt again.

"What do you want, Hawley?"

His expression changes, she watches as the walls go up, his roguish smile firmly in place.

"Right now, I just want to make you come."

She nods, focuses on the ceiling.

"Okay." she breathes. And then all she can feel in the fabric of her jeans falling to the floor. She remembers the look in Nick's eyes as he rushed to her, binding the wound to her arm. She remembers Ichabod's fingers twitching in the woods. But she refuses to linger.

Nick's face between her thighs is as a good distraction as any.

—

Three months to the day after Katrina's death, he falls. It's quicker than she imagined. She is struggling in Ichabod's arms as he drags her away from the body, empty and gone, a shell really. She thinks he deserved more, in death and from her. A darkness opens up beneath her and she can't ignore it's pull.

—

The mirrors in her room crack and explode, spilling out onto the floor and filling the spaces beside her bed with shards of glass. She feels cold, something in her giving in, as the the glass floods her room, enveloping her. Henry's arms are around her weighing her down, his voice in her ear telling her to rest, that oblivion is such a modern concept, but it is hers if she'll have it.

She's earned that much.

She can feel the caress of the glass and his teeth sharp against her skin, cutting into her. She can't see his face but she suspects her blood is bright and smeared against his mouth. Henry's own twisted idea of mercy, and its wet and red and spilling out of her, chilling her to the core. She knows she should at least struggle but just this once she's too tired to fight.

It's his voice that wakes her.

She is in the lake beside the cabin, chin deep in the water, paralyzed with cold, and already loosing her footing.

"Lieutenant!" He is yelling, jumping into the water despite the snow and the frigid temperature.

She wishes she could call out to him, wishes she could reach out. But soon enough he has her in his arms, pulling her towards the deck. He is shivering but he manages to carry her into the cabin and place her in front of the fire before searching for his phone. But the snow storm and resulting power outage took down the nearest cell tower hours ago and she watches Ichabod angrily send the phone hurtling into the cabin wall. She should protest, she bought him that phone, but she is just too tired to care. Her eyes are drifting closed, her head lolling against the seat of the couch.

This time she awakes to a sharp pain in her cheek. Ichabod is in her face, his eyes a bit wild, teeth bared, his hands cradling her head.

She blinks up at him.

"Oh thank god." he exclaims, his face crumbling and he pulls her against him. Exhaustion is tugging at her, just at the peripheral, fuzzy and numb and so very inviting but she has to ask.

"Did you just slap me?" she slurs into his neck.

"A necessary evil." he says, his voice strained. She huffs and slumps against him closing her eyes.

"Abbie no, no, no, you cannot sleep. You must stay awake." He pushes her away, props her up again against Corbin's couch. Abbie's confused, none of this makes sense.

"But Henry said I could rest". And some sane part of her struggles up past the delirium in time for her to hear Ichabod's heart break beside her, she bites down hard on her lip but she doesn't open her eyes.

She hears Ichabod swallow, say something about her clothes but tears are stinging behind her eyelids and she is choking. She thinks if she could just relax, her chest might bust open and her life and blood would gush out of her in a slurry of flesh and ice and bone. They could make a meal of it and then she could sleep. Surely, she could sleep then.

Ichabod is pulling her top over head and Abbie immediately jerks back, her eyes flying open. Ichabod's eyes meet her own and Abbie finds herself biting her lip again but the horrified look in Ichabod eyes makes her think its too late. Then his hands are at hips, stripping her pajama pants swiftly from her legs, throwing the wet garments across the room. He tugs her bra over her head and Abbie's hands unconsciously go to cover her chest. She watches Ichabod rise from his position on the floor, his shoulders taut with tension. She thinks she hears him curse, and then he's returned with the big wool coat he was buried in, pulling it around her, coaxing her hands through the arms. He buttons the coat clean to her throat and then reaches underneath tugging down the lacy scrap of her panties and adding them to the pile of discarded clothing.

He leaves her again and Abbie watches the flames dance bright and wild in the fireplace but she can't quite feel them. The coat is heavy, suffocating, her hands and body swallowed whole. She struggles with the buttons until she has a shoulder free, she is almost free of it entirely when he returns in his yoga clothes, his arms laden with blankets.

"God's Wounds, Abbie."

He drops the blankets to the floor at their feet and pulls her hands away, tugs the coat back into place. She struggles against him, trying to get free, but her movements are sluggish and her limbs are weak. He pulls her into his lap, her legs straddling his hips, and wraps her in his arms, shushing her and eventually Abbie stills. She can feel the exhaustion creeping back into her bones but Ichabod's hands have her anchored to him. She can feel him breathing great ragged breaths, his heart beating quick in his chest, the shivers racking his body. He's cold, she thinks and she wonders why.

Ichabod pulls one arm away from her to pile the blankets around them both. And Abbie can feel the swirl of hysteria rise again in her throat, push out of her mouth like a whimper. She hates it, all of it, but Ichabod only presses her body closer and she clings to him. Finished, he tucks his free arm under the covers and brings his fingers to her throat, checking her pulse.

"Come on, Abbie." he says, "Stay with me. We have to get you warm." And then his hands are rubbing vigorously at her back through the coat, running along her bare thighs, counting the ribs in her sides and at first she is so numb it barely registers.

"Talk to me Abbie"

He presses his cheek against hers.

"Abbie please."

Abbie can barely focus but he sounds sad so she tries, slurring out the only words she can summon.

"Jenny said I'm - Do you think I'm cold?" she says. And at once Abbie wants to pluck the words out the air, and crush them under her heal.

For a moment, Ichabod's hands still and Abbie can't help but curl into him even further.

"No. I think you are far from cold, Abbie." He is whispering into hair now, his hands drawing long lines up and down her spine. "You are fire. You consume everything you touch."

"Everything?" she asks, because god that sounds lonely.

"Everything." he says, his voice is low and Abbie thinks it could be a confession.

"Do you think that is why she ran?" she asks, letting her hands twist in the fabric of his shirt.

"Thats why we all do. I'm sorry we were not stronger."

She cries then and the shivering follows not long after until her whole body is shaking, her teeth clattering. Ichabod holds onto her, his hands leaving trails of flame along her body, as if her every nerve ending were catching fire under his touch.

"Oh God, it hurts." she gasps into his shoulder.

"I know Abbie," he says, his voice pained, his whole body curved around her. "Just hold on. It will pass. "

—

The next morning, over a cup of tea, she kisses him. It's a quiet tentative thing, heavy with hope, but when Abbie pulls away she can feel his gaze on her. His eyes are burning with longing, purpose even, so Abbie lets him set her cup, half full, on the table, lets him lead her to his bed. His hands are hot and heavy at her waist, at the nape of neck. He builds her up even as she crumbles beneath him and in his arms she doesn't find oblivion but she does find bliss. Ichabod tastes like milk and honey. He feels like coming home.


End file.
